Andy’s dilemma. Errm … decision.

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On Friday, the first thing I heard on radio was Andy in tears. It was also the last thing on TV before going to bed. A proud Scotsman, 31 years of age, Andy announces his retirement after a scintillating career in tennis and a long fight with an injury to his right hip. Tall and athletic, in a deep blue t-shirt, seated in front of a dark grey screen covered in contrasting logos, he faced the press. Eyes lowered. Head bent. His left hand trying to cover his face in the guise of adjusting the brim of his baseball cap.
“Ermm. Not great.” (Nods, looks sideways, down and to his right. Nods twice to himself. Big sigh.)
“Ermm…”(Comes close to breaking down and leaves his seat. Walks off with head steeply bent forward.)
Comes back. Sits down. Starts again.
“Sorry.” (Small cough)
“Ermm. Yeah. So, not … not feeling good.
Obviously been struggling, been struggling for a long time.
I can still play to a level. Not a level I’m happy playing at. But also, it’s not just that the pain is … too much really. I don’t want to keep playing that way. You know, I spoke to my team and I told them that, you know, I can’t … I can’t keep doing this and I needed to have an endpoint. I told my team that I needed to get through this till Wimbledon. That’s where … where I’d like to stop.
Ermm … stop playing. (Visibly steels himself as he says this).
Ermm … but also not certain I’m able to do that. (Shakes his head and bends it further forward)
Ya. Ya. I think there’s a chance of that for sure. (Rubs his right eye. Purses his lips.)
Ermm. Ya. There’s … sure, because like I said I am not sure … not sure I’m able to … to play through the pain you know. For another 4-5 months. Ermm. I have an option to, you know, have another operation which you know is … you know a little bit more … more kind of severe than what I’ve had before and having my hip resurfaced will allow me to have a better quality of life and be out of pain and that’s something I’m seriously considering right now. There’s obviously no guarantees. The reason for having an operation like that is not to return to professional sport. It’s just for a better quality of life. Yeah. For myself mainly. (Pulls the brim of his hat forward). There’s lots of little things. I mean, you guys see me running around the tennis court and walking around in between points and it obviously doesn’t look good and doesn’t look comfortable but you know there’s little things like day to day, that are also a struggle, and ya, it’d be nice to be able to do them without any pain. Putting your shoes on, socks on – things like that. Having the limitations and the pain is not allowing me to enjoy competing or training or any of the stuff that (shrugs) I love about tennis.
Nothing helps. You’re in lots and lots of pain. You can’t do what you want to do, what you love doing. I can do it but it’s not fun. I’m not enjoying doing it. So … I mean. That’s what I’ve done. Tried to deal with it, talk about it. Ermm. But none of that makes my hip feel better unfortunately. I wish it did, cause if it did, I’d be feeling brilliant just now but it doesn’t. So…” (Gets up and leaves.)

His deep sense of loss, confusion, pain and vulnerability came across clearly. It’s probably one of the hardest decisions of his life. I visualise a society, our society, creating space for such expression, not just for physical but also emotional pain. It’s going to be a tricky transition. I am sure he has the required support network in place. Good luck Andy!

Ref: https://www.theguardian.com/sport/2019/jan/13/andy-murray-tennis-retirement

 

Needs, needs …

Alexander Maslow called himself a Humanistic Psychologist. He had a special interest in the relationship between the human mind and human potential. He is known by the model of human needs he proposed, Maslow’s Triangle.

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Starting from below, the first 4 needs are classed as ‘Basic’ needs. They are essential to survival and yet, unmet for a large proportion of the world population. The order of needs is not meant to be strictly from the base to the tip of the pyramid. Many of them are of importance simultaneously. At different times, one can be more important than the other. Self-actualization is put forward as a ‘Being’ need, to connect with something beyond survival of the ‘ego’, to find self-fulfillment and help others find the same.

I read ‘morality’ as ‘authenticity’ – being aligned with my true values and self. For me it’s not about abiding by a religious doctrine or an external diktat.

When Saagar was alive, I spent most of my time in meeting our ‘basic’ needs, often sacrificing one for another. Moving away from friends and family, spending long hours at work, fighting stiff competition to move forward professionally, not making time for my hobbies, friends and relaxation, constantly chasing time, worrying about running a house-hold.

Since Saagar’s passing, I have had glimpses of ‘self-actualization’. I have been able to connect with myself and others authentically. I have a desire to know and understand the meaning of being human at a deeper level. My creativity has found expression. I have experienced transient moments of transcendence, which cannot be described in words. I have been able to appreciate beauty in flowers, leaves and poetry like never before. Retrospectively, I have been able to see that Saagar could not meet any of his needs except the most basic when he was severely depressed and that must have been crushingly painful for him.

I wish it didn’t take something so terrible, to make us see things clearly.

The Cats

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(Merry Christmas from Milkshake)

The Intensive Care Unit (ICU) at the City Hospital was a circus. A different clown (read Consultant) was in-charge everyday. What was right on a Monday was completely wrong on a Tuesday. The same action would be pronounced as ‘perfect’ by one clown and ‘abhorrent’ by another. To make things better, they didn’t talk to each other. The flunkies (read junior doctors) were the in-betweeners that got lammed from both sides as their shifts crossed over time-territories. They were the pawns on the frontline that took over the running of the unit from one clown at the beginning of a shift and handed over to the other at the end. They were the ones dodging the arrows of conflict over phones, in hospital corridors and at handovers. They were the ones that stayed up all night working hard, only to be abused and criticised the next morning. They were the buckets into which bile was poured, the bile of bitterness that the clowns didn’t have the guts to express to each other.

In 2004, I was one of those flunkies. After about 8 months of this non-sense, I was done. I was loosing my sense of self, my confidence in making decisions and most importantly,  pride in my job. It was time to stop and take stock. After a nasty night shift, I was handing over the patients to the day team. I am sure at one point I heard the Consultant taking over suggest to me ‘you need your head examined’.  That did it for me. Bleary-eyed and broken, I couldn’t bear to go home only to come back to this toxic work environment yet again that night. I planted myself in Psychiatry Outpatient Department and demanded to be seen by someone. Dr Ingram was a handsome, young psychiatrist with kind eyes and a small beer belly, well couched in his grey suit. He understood. I was given 6 weeks of work-related-stress leave and started on Fluoxetine. I was also seen by an occupational therapist once every fortnight. She suggested getting a cat.

At the local Animal rescue home, we found an enchanting black and white, one year old feline. It was her eyes that got me – talking and smiling eyes. We were told it was a girl. We decided to call her Bella. We were advised to keep her strictly indoors for at least 6 weeks, till she got used to the smells in the house. She found her way to the strangest of places –  on top of kitchen cabinets and radiator covers, squeezed behind and underneath beds, chairs and sofas, inside shoes and boxes. The only place she didn’t like was her soft furry blanketed bed.

On our first trip to the vet for a basic check-up and vaccinations, we found out that the she-cat was in fact a he-cat. After much consultation, he was christened ‘Mr Bronx’, the old faithful. He soon became a source of great joy, comfort and hilarity for the family. We had him go crazy playing with balls of wool, soft toys with tiny in-built bells and laser beams. He was pure entertainment from a distance at the beginning but slowly he allowed us to stroke and cuddle him. Within a month we were having full-fledged conversations with him.

The Fluoxetine made me feel frozen. Hollow. No joy. No pain. No love. It was dehumanising and unbearable at times. It was proof that pills alone cannot make you happy. After 6 weeks, it was time to go back to work. I did. A cunning plan was put into place so that I didn’t spend too much time at the ICU. It worked.

9 years later, Saagar was home from University and I got a phone call from him at work. He said he’d found a cat on ‘Gumtree’ and he would love to get it. That evening we went over to a tiny flat in Sydenham occupied by a family of 4 – mum and 3 kids. On a window sill lounged another family of 4, a grey mother-cat with her three grey kittens, 6 weeks old. One of the malnourished kids was about 3. He handled the kittens like rags. He didn’t care if he lifted them by their ears or tails or bellies. He let them go from various heights above the floor, cornered and held them with a lot of force. He told us all about what the cats ate. We picked the cutest little kitten who resembled a mini-punk, got it properly accessorised and brought “Milkshake” home. He was Saagar’s baby that summer.

Not once did it occur to me that there might be a connection between the circumstances under which we got the first cat and the second.

Ref: https://www.cats.org.uk/news/purring-the-blues-away

Becca writes

 

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You laugh till you cry, squinting your tiger eyes
But tell us to hush when your parents call
In your Dulwich voice you say ”Be quiet guys!”

And in Indian voice you pick up, making us fall
About with laughter, like when you do your godly pose
Or carry Seb round your waist, provoking hustle and bustle
To get a good shot of you, as you put on a show
Wearing a quite tight t-shirt to show off your muscles

As the parties continue, drinks are going both ways
(Who owes who drinks? I’ve lost track of the debt)
whilst you start charming the ladies with le français
and protect them from drunks, proceeding to get
with them, then when all is nigh you third-wheel on a couch
never in a bed, you can be found asleep on the floor
snoring like a silver spoon is clanking in your mouth,
a sound that not even sleeping logs could ignore!

And when we wake and board the train I stare
At your long toenails, forever on my mind
I beg you to cut them as you offer to share
Your pungent fish-curry, which I have to decline,
I’m just glad you didn’t wear flip-flops that time we ate
Dinner at mine with my religious uncle and aunt
(who you mistook for my grandma) and they both said
that you wanted to marry me, me thinking “you can’t
be serious’ as it would have been like incest.

Plus our music tastes conflict (metal’s not my thing)
But back on track now to mention that you give the best
Hugs and your previous girl-friends continue to sing
Your praises, more or less, along the same lines …

Saagar, talented musician, gifted linguist and great friend.
Words cannot express just how sorry we all are,
How much we love and miss you.
Rest in peace.

Love,
Becca.

PS: The missing is driving me nuts!!!

Inventory of Loss

Just like old trinkets, losses sit about in our being for years, forming layers upon layers, rusting us on the inside. Most of the world walks around with a thin film of red rust of unresolved grief just under their skin. A long list of losses dressed up as something else hides behind this film.

When Russell was 6, he went for a basketball game with his dad one Saturday. He lost his little blue jacket there. His dad gave him a good hiding for that. For Russell, it meant loss of safety. Did anyone recognise this as a loss? Nope.

When Saagar moved from India to Northern Ireland, he didn’t know English very well. He was one of three coloured kids in his Primary school. Something as fundamental as his name was alien to all around him. One day he came home from school and asked, “Can we change my name to Alan or something?” For him, this move meant loss of a sense of place and a sense of self. Was it acknowledged as such? Nope.

When the Tsunami washed away thousands of villages on 2004, Saagar was stunned. Until then he had faith in God but after watching the devastation caused by it on TV, it was all over for him. He said, “If there was a God, He would not allow such a horrible  thing to happen.” It meant a profound loss of faith for him. Did we know how to deal with it? Nope.

When I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis, I was 42. It mainly affected the small joints in both my hands. I worried about my ability to work in the future. With correct diagnosis and medication, I was back to normal in a short time, but for a while I lost my confidence, my sense of security. Was it expressed and addressed? Nope.

Yes. We accumulate losses without knowing it and our inventories continue to add on more items when we’re not looking.

I am learning to look at and validate all my losses. I am learning to be complete with them.  As Christmas is approaching, I am aware that that empty chair at my dinner table will hurt. But I am grateful that Saagar once sat there. I am already grateful for all those who will be in their chairs that day. I am also determined to make them feel special and wonderful, loved and cherished, like I would Saagar, if he were here.

PS: In Jan/Feb 2019 I hope to start a series of 8 weekly Grief Recovery workshops, 2 hours each. Up to 9 participants can be accommodated. It will most likely be on Tuesday evenings in South London. If you think you would like to work with me and take small actions towards healing, please do let me know. Thank you.

How did I get here?

17John W James was a young man in America who had his heart broken by the death of his son in 1977. He found that there was no help available for his heart. He was mostly asked to process the pain through his brain. This did not work for him. His pain continued to worsen and invade other parts of his life, such as his marriage and his work. At one point his suffering and isolation was so great that he couldn’t bear to continue living. He was on the brink of ending his life when he asked himself, “How did I get here?”

He sat down and took a closer look at his life. He found many losses in his past that had been claiming parts of his soul like land-mines along the way. For example, friends lost in the Vietnam war.  He had never addressed or resolved any of his previous painful experiences and they had been layering up, one on top of the other, on top of him, to the point he was being smothered by them. He unpicked each of these layers one by one. He dealt with every one of them in a particular way. He found a method by which he could reach his heart and reduce his pain. Slowly, he started to feel much better. He shared this method with other grieving families and it helped them too. He called it “Grief Recovery Method”.

This afternoon I completed my Grief Recovery Method workshops and I can see why they have helped thousands of people across the globe over the last 30 years.

PS: E-book request form : https://www.griefrecoverymethod.co.uk/ebookrequestform/

“Hello Flower!”

You may call it cheesy. I can see Saagar roll his eyes and give me a crooked smile, shaking his head, as if to say, ”You’re hopeless.”

I never imagined I would ever meet anyone whose notions of romance are more hopeless than mine. I now poke my arm with the back of a pen to spring my attention to it as it happens. Connecting with Si without words or gestures in the most public of places, sharing the smallest, sweetest, bitterest, cringiest moments silently, merely by an exchange of looks comes most naturally. Having never experienced this before, millions of ‘red heart’ and ‘red rose’ emojis jump up and down in my eyes every time.

On a warm Saturday afternoon we went for a walk around Streatham Common. A toddler waddled his way towards us. Suddenly he got sucked into the beauty of white flowers on a bush on his right. He stopped and turned to face the bush. “Hello Flower!”, he greeted the bush with a smile as big as the sky. Both of us caught that moment and held it.

On long haul flights we watch films together – the same film precisely synchronised on our respective screens. We start, pause, restart and finish at the same time. I did promise ‘cheesy’. Water-bottles, travel pillows, chocolates, books, music shared.
Lives enriched. Memories created. Bonds strengthened.

He can tell from my body language, voice, sighs, shadows across my face when I am not in a good place. Even when it happens for half a second, mid-sentence in a restaurant in dim light, he catches it. I don’t expect him to. But he does.

Two bodies, one organism.
Time doesn’t heal. Love does.

PS: Happy first wedding anniversary my darling. Think of this as paper.